5  36  6 
o 


UC-NR 


OUT 

of  the 

NORTH 


HOWARD  V.  SUTHERLAND 


FREO  M.  DEWITI 

BOOKSELLER 
1BOO  TELEGRAPH  AVE. 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

IDYLLS  OF  GREECE       Series  One 
IDYLLS  OF  GREECE     Series  Two 
THE  WOMAN  WHO  COULD 
THE  LEGEND  OF  LOVE 
IDAS  AND  MARPESSA 


OUT  OF   THE 


JOACLUIN  MILLER 


ft********************** 


OUT  OF  THE 


Howard  V.   Sutherland® 


48 


Foreword  by 


J  o  a  q  u  i  n     fM  i  1  1  e  r 


,j. 


48 


3^ew   York  & 

"Desmond  FitzCjferald,  Inc.   ^ 
tMcmxiii 


Copyright  Iplj  by 
DESMOND    FITZGERALD,  INC. 


To  FREDERICK  H.  RANDALL 


Frontispiece,  yoaquin  Miller,  Dawson,  T.  T. 

Foreword  by  yoaquin  Miller 

The  Northern  Light      .           .           .  .        / 

In  Winter       .....  2 

Lyric          .                     .          .          .  .       j 

Darf^  Days      .                     .          .           .  4. 

The  Unanswerable  5 

Vain  Dreams            ....  6 

December   ......         7 

The  Unassuageable.             ...  8 

Father  Judge  S.  J.       .           .           .  .9 

The  Light-o'-Love  ....  IO-II 

Two  Quests          .           .           .           .  .12 

The  Return  of  the  Sun      .           .           .  13 

Klondyke  Roses               .           .          .  •      14- 

A  Song  for  the  Return  of  Birds  .           .  15 

The  Forest  Cotillion       .           .           .  .16 

The  Spruces  of  the  Forest  ...  77 

The  Wild  Lover           .          .          .  .      18 

Homeward  Bound  ....  zn 

Approaching  Night        .           .           .  .20 


F  O  I^E  W  0  <BJD 


from    a  far-away   world;  a  cry 
^?  from  another  sphere.      To  those  of  us 

5  wno    once    experienced    the    still    and 

6  pities8  cold,   a  cry  terribly   suggestive 
of  the   horror-charged  gloom,    of  the  icy  silence 
as  unbroken  as  that  of  unfathomable  deeps,   of  the 
stern  and  uncompromising  individuality  of  a  dis 
turbed  and  vengeful  North. 

Yet  one  is  also  reminded  that,  even  in  the 
Klondyke,  in  due  season  the  brooding  spruces  are 
awakened  from  slumber  by  the  songs  of  happy- 
throated  songsters,  that  the  melancholy  of  the 
forest  is  brightened  by  gay  flowers.  The  weight 
is  then  lifted  from  men's  hearts;  singing  is  heard 
in  the  cabin,  and  the  sound  of  laughter  on  the 
trail.  When  the  mighty  Yukon  is  open  to  the 
Behring  Sea,  the  far  North  is  in  touch  with  the 
world  and  men  are  glad. 

But  the  Ar&ic  summer  is  short-lived.  The 
days  of  the  bird  and  the  flower  and  the  rippling 
creeks  are  numbered.  Soon  the  sky  turns  grey, 
the  wind  chants  the  sun's  requiem,  the  snow  falls; 
and  then  returns  the  cold,  the  gloom,  the  feeling 
of  isolation,  the  indescribable  terror. 

I  heard  these  songs  sung  in  the  Arctic,  the 
singer  at  my  side — these  songs  of  nature,  songs  of 
hope,  home,  heart.  They  seem  a  part  of  my  life. 
I  heard  them  as  the  cry  of  a  lone  bird  in  the  vast 
silence  of  eternal  snows. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER 
THE  HEIGHTS,  CAL. 
Nov. 


The  Northern  Light 

WHO    drapes    that    mystic    veil   across 
that  everbrooding  sky? 
Who  hues  it  with  a  soul  of  pearl?      Who 

draws  it  to  and  fro? 
Who  breathes  upon  it  with  the  breath  that 

makes  it  glow  and  die, 
Lighting  that  crystal  river,  those  mount 
ains  cowPd  with  snow? 


In  Winter 


BENEATH  the  snow  the  mosses  sleep 
Amid  the  forest's  silence; 
Above,  the  stately  birches  keep 
Unbroken  vigils. 

The  spruce  trees  dream  of  summer  hours 

And  birds  that  carrolled  sweetly, 
Of  gentle  winds  and  smiling  flowers 
That  died  too  quickly. 


Lyric 


TELL  me,  tell  me,  gentle  stars, 
Ever  watchful,  ever  bright, 
From  your  stations  in  the  sky 
Do  you  see  my  love  to-night? 

White  the  snow  beneath  my  feet, 
Whiter  far  her  holy  breast; 

Peaceful  are  the  mighty  woods, 
But  her  eyes  are  soft  with  rest. 

Sweet  the  scent  of  spruce  and  pine, 
Sweeter,  though,  her  fragrant  breath; 

Tell  her,  tell  her,  gentle  stars, 
I  am  hers  alone  till  death. 


[3] 


Dark  Days 


THE  sun  has  left  his  throne, 
The  sky  is  leaden-hued; 
The  hopeless  winds  bemoan, 
In  icy  aisles,  their  fate. 

All  day  the  shadows  press 

About  the  forest's  nuns, 
That  dream  in  loneliness 

Their  dreams  of  birds  and  spring. 


[4] 


The  Unanswerable 


O    SOMBRE  skies  that  ever  mourn, 
O  silent  skies  so  grey  and  stern, 
Are  ye  the  curtains  of  that  bourne 

Where  we  at  last  our  fate  must  learn  ? 

Is  it  behind  your  gloomy  veil 

The  Judge  with  Book  of  Judgment  stands? 
Where  we  must  pass,  with  faces  pale, 

Awaiting  judgment  at  His  hands? 

O  sombre  skies  that  frown  all  day 
Upon  us  hopeless,  hapless  men, 

When  Death  shall  beckon  us  away 

What  happens  then?  What  happens  then? 


[5] 


Vain   Dreams 


THE  trees,  my  sisters,  robed  in  white, 
Now  dream  of  spring ; 
Of  sun-lit  day  and  fragrant  night, 
Of  birds  that  sing. 

They  little  think  that  I  can  tell 

About  their  pain; 
They  do  not  know  I  dream  as  well 

A  dream  most  vain. 


[6] 


December 


BENEATH  a  shroud  of  unpolluted  white, 
The  frozen  hills  lie  silent  and  asleep; 
And  moveless  spruce  and  ghostly  birches 

keep 

Their  silent  vigils  through  the  endless  night. 
The    frozen    creeks,   long    voiceless,   partly 

veiled 
'Neath  drifting   snow,   dream    fondly  of 

the  trees; 
Within  the  woods  no  bird's  song  and  no 

breeze 
Make  wondrous  music  when  the  skies  have 

paled. 

The  kingly  sun  ne'er  sends  his  laughing  rays 
To  wake  the  hills  and  warm  the  trees 

and  streams; 

His  face  is  hid,  and  hid  are  now  the  beams 
That  woke  the  world  on  long-dead  summer 

days. 

The  patient  moon  with  all  her  silent  train 
Of  maiden  stars  patrols  the  roads  on  high, 
And  watches  well  all  things  that  sleep 
ing  lie 

Till  Spring's  first  song  shall  waken  themagain. 

The  white  world  sleeps,  and  all  is  very  still, 

Except  when  rises  on  the  frosted  air 

From  out  its  chilly  and  forbidding  lair 

A  lone  wolfs  howl,  long-drawn  and  terrible. 

[7] 


The  Unassuageable 


I   SOMETIMES    hear   among  the   snow- 
clad  trees 
The  lone  wind  chanting  solemn  symphonies. 

I    sometimes    smell,    while    yet    the    woods 

are  bare, 
The  breath  of  unborn  blossoms  in  the  air. 

I  am  at  times  aware  of  gentle  sighs 
There  where  the  creek,   ice-fettered,  dream 
ing  lies. 

I  sometimes  witness  when  the  air  is  still 
Unearthly  splendors  on  the  white-robed  hill. 

I  sometimes  read  in  flashing  stars  at  night 
Mysterious  promises  of  future  light. 

But  what  can  make  a  spirit's  anguish  less, 
Or  ease  a  heart's  eternal  loneliness? 


[8] 


Father  Judge,  S.  J. 

HERE  was  a  man,  a  humble  minister 
Beloved  of  all  in  northern  latitudes 
Who  knew  the  value  of  the  kingly  heart 
That  beat  beneath  his  worn  and  priestly  coat. 

A  soldier  he,  who  ne'er  forsook  his  post; 
Whose    actions    were   more  numerous  than 

words; 
His    soul    was    God's;     his   heart    and    body 

man's — 
Nothing  his  own  except  our  gratitude. 

Worn  e'er  his  time  by   hardship  none  may 

know 
Who    shirked    the    bitter    schooling    of   the 

North, 

He  passed  away,  and  now  forever  stands 
As  close  to  God  as  gentle  Damien. 


[9] 


The  Ligbt-o'-Love 


THE  dogs  were   whining j    they  sensed 
too  well 
The  load  upon  the  sled; 

The  rough-hewn  box  with  the  light-o'-love 

A  girl,  'twas  said. 

A  week  ago,  at  the  Palace  Bar, 

She  sang  the  songs  of  France; 
But  many  a  heart  is  lead  the  while 
The  feet  must  dance. 

Kisses  she  gave  and  kisses  she  took, 

Sinned  for  her  daily  bread; 
But  all  we  knew  as  we  eyed  the  box 
Was:  she  was  dead. 

We  placed  upon  it  (How  much  it  hurt 

Only  the  good  God  knows  !) 
A  gaud  she  had  worn  in  her  dusky  hair — 
A  paper  rose. 

A  crumpled  thing  that  seemed  beautiful 

To  lonely,  broken  men, 
Hinting  of  fairer  flowers  and  things 
Beyond  our  ken. 

We  thought  of  her  as  we  closed  her  door 

As  somebody's  little  child; 
As  somebody's  darling,  lost,  long  lost, 
But  undefiled. 

[10] 


The  grey  above  us,  the  white  beneath; 

Chill  silence  everywhere; 
Yet  deep  in  our  hearts  we  knew  that  God 
Was  also  there. 

We  knew,  far  better  than  others  know 

Whose  ways  are  bright  and  glad, 
His  judgments  are  very  merciful 
On  good  and  bad. 

Our  little  sister  was  now  at  peace. 

The  snow  began  to  fall. 
The  flakes  soon  hid  that  gift  of  ours 
Beneath  their  pall. 

Under  the  white,  white  flakes  the  rose, 

Crumpled,  tawdry  and  red; 
Hinting  the  pity  which  all  men  need 
When  they  are  dead. 

*  *  * 

The  dogs   still   whined   as   they  dragged  the 

sled 

To  where  the  spruces  dream; 
And  there  we  left  her,  a  wayward  child, 
At  rest  in  Him. 


Two  Quests 


EVERY  day  I  watch  men  go 
Up  the  trail 

Seeking  gold.     It  is  a  show 
Worth  the  watching;    much  I  know 
About  the  game. 

In  the  dead  of  night  they  creep 

Past  my  door; 

But  I  hear  them  in  my  sleep, 
And  I  pity.     Very  steep 

The  road  to  Fame. 


[12] 


The  Return  of  the  Sun 

WINTER  is  passing.     The  inconstant 
sun — 

Neglectful  lover,  therefore  doubly  dear — 
Kisses  the  stern,  white  faces  of  the  hills, 
Melting  their  hearts  to  tenderness  again; 
Kisses    the    earth,   still    shiv'ring   'neath    its 

shroud, 

And  whispers  it  of  blossoms  to  be  born. 
Kisses  the  boughs  and  lures  the  fresh  young 

leaves, 
Spring's  verdant   heralds,  from   their   hiding 

place; 
Kisses    the    trees    and   tells   them    of  bright 

birds 
Seeking  new  homes  for  merry  families. 

Winter  is  passing.     The  inconstant   sun — 
Neglectful  lover,   therefore  doubly  dear — 
Enters  the  hearts  of  long  despondent  men, 
Bidding  them  smile  and  be  consoled   again; 
Enters  their  souls  and  whispers  them  of  God, 
Of  distant  homes  and   friends  that  pray  for 

them; 

Enters  our  cabins  and  dispels  the  gloom 
Of  soundless  days  and   never-ending  nights; 
Enters  our  eyes  and  bids  us  rise  and  see 
Winter's    interment,   mourn'd    by    laughing 

Spring. 

['3] 


Klondyke  Roses 


WHEN  melts  at  last  the  lingering  snow 
In  sunny  days  of  May  or  June, 
Amid  the  velvet  mosses  grow 

Shy  roses,  fragrant-smelling. 
A  fated  sisterhood  is  theirs, 

They  sigh  their  souls  out  wistfully; 
No  bee  makes  love  to  them  or  hears 
Their  tender  love  a-telling. 

They  dream,  perhaps,  of  distant  lands, 

(O  lands,  that  seem  as  far-off  spheres ;) 
Of  love-lit  eyes  and  tender  hands 
That  pluck  far  happier  roses. 
But  while  they  dream  the  days  pass  by 

And  August  comes  with  ebon  nights, 
And  sombre  is  September's  sky — 
And  then  their  sad  life  closes. 


<A  Song  for  the  Return  of  Birds 

HASTE,  little  songsters,  and  return 
To  your  nests  in  the  silent  wood; 
The  birches  are  lonely  and  they  yearn 

For  your  twittering  brotherhood. 
The  leaves  are  green  on  the  wakened  trees 
And  the  snow  has  left  the  moss; 
The  sighing  breeze 
With  its  symphonies 
Suggests  our  greatest  loss — 
Haste,  little  birds,  haste  home  ! 

Haste  little  songsters,  for  the  Spring 

Has  come  with  her  laughing  train 
Of  radiant  blossoms;  and  now  the  King 

Is  here,  and  the  pattering  rain. 
The  nights  are  warm  and  the  days  are  long, 

There  is  no  more  ice  or  frost; 
And  oh!  we  long 
For  a  songbird's  song, 

For  a  music  the  woods  have  lost — 
Haste,  little  birds,  haste  home! 


5] 


The  Forest  Cotillion 

WHEN   the    wind    is  joyous-hearted    it 
stirs  the  graceful  spruces, 
And  they  nod  at  one  another  and  toss  their 

arms  in  abandon; 

Then  they  sway  their  supple  bodies  in  won 
derful  undulations, 

Keeping    a    perfect    time    with    the    wind's 
mysterious  music. 

Then  the  watchmen  of  the  forest,  the  solemn 

and  silent  birches, 
Bend  stifly  their  stately  heads,  saluting  their 

laughing  sisters; 
And  the  alders  wake  from  slumber,  and  the 

willows  grieve  no  longer 
When   the  wild  wind  woos  the  stream  and 

sets  the  trees  a-dancing. 


[16] 


The  Spruces  of  the  Forest 

T  TNHAPPY  trees,  beneath  whose  grace- 
ful  branches 


No  lovers  walk,  no  children  ever  play; 
Who  never  hear  the  sound  of  girlish  laughter, 

But  pass  in  gloom  your  silent  lives   away; 
I  wonder  if  ye  heed  me  as  I  press 
My  heart  to  yours  in  utter  loneliness. 

I  wonder  if  ye  see  me  as  I  wander 

Along  the  trail  no  feet  but  mine  e'er  tread; 

I  wonder  if  ye  hear  me  when  I  murmur 
The  name  of  one  who  might  as  well  be  dead 

So  far  away,  so  very  far  is  she  — 

I  wonder  if  ye  heed  and  pity  me  ? 


[17] 


The  Wild  Lover 


SWAY  your  lithe  arms,   ye  graceful  trees, 
The  wind  is  out  a-wooing ! 
Ye  may  be  many,  yet  he  sees 
A  way  to  your  undoing. 

Ye  need  not  fear, 
Though  birds  may  hear 

Your  whispers  or  your  sighs; 
Or  tell  the  night 
Of  your  delight — 

Nay,  Nay,  the  birds  are  wise. 

Your  vestiture  of  maiden  green 

Doth  very  well  adorn  ye; 
The  wind  will  deem  each  one  a  queen, 

And  woo.     He  dare  not  scorn  ye! 


[18] 


Homeward  Bound 


I    HAVE  ventured  on  many  a  journey, 
By  land  and  sea ; 
And  whether  success  or  failure 

Was  granted  me, 
It  mattered  but  very  little — 
It  is  good  to  be  Homeward  Bound. 

When  thou  bravest  the  final  voyage, 

And  thou  must  steer 
Across  the  mysterious  ocean, 

Friend,  have  no  fear; 
There  is  only  one  port  for  the  sailors 
When  once  they  are  Homeward  Bound  ! 


['9] 


^Approaching 


THE    lower'd    skies   are    grey;   the    trees 
are  bare. 
A    week    ago    they    gleam'd    in    splendid 


rows 


Of  gold  and  crimson;  now  in  gaunt  despair 
They  stand  like  ghosts  above  new-fallen 


snows. 


The  world  seems  even  greyer  than  the  skies. 
'Twas    yesterday    the   homeward-honking 

geese 
Fled  as  from  death.     They  know  too  well 

what  lies 
Behind  this  sinister,  foreboding  peace! 


0/66  / 


•,'73089 


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